Here We Go
The rag that swiped the skate blades clean of slush, drying now in the trash barrel, a 50-gallon fire burning up the teahouse trash and samurai armor, those dragon scales humbler than the pants that boys put on between 5th grade & 6th behind a levee, rain on the river “rain; empty river; a voyage” like carrier pigeons flying home, footsteps on a run of wooden stairs near the wildwood, where a swallow dies of hunger, winter’s end in costume, & all by itself, the sunset a red bowling shirt with black piping on the collar going forth with vehemence into darkness, the rebee’s daughter, hot as ever for Benya Krik, the wish to be something forbidden or flavorful as always on the skinny legs of the pert, a taste brined in boatyard puddles, the reflections of a yacht that drips seawater in November when hoisted up, glorious & miserable, a wall calendar that had fallen long ago, the child having been born at last, sloppy & lawless— Here we go, I thought, face down in autumn’s indispensable blue pillow book, here we go again, full speed ahead.